


More of Gravy than of Grave

by okapi



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
Genre: Anal Sex, Birching, Christmas Smut, Crack, Farce, Ghost Sex, Oral Sex, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Watersports, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21941677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: Old Scrooge banged as hard as a coffin-nail.Scrooge/Ghosts. Please heed the tags and warning!For the DW Corsets & Lemons kink meme; MissDavisWrites' 2019 Advent Calendar Day 12: Bah humbug; and the DW story_works 2019 Paranormal Challenge.
Relationships: Ebenezer Scrooge/Ghosts
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge, Corsets & Lemons 2019 round - 1800 literature, Story Works





	More of Gravy than of Grave

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for the DW Corsets & Lemons 19th century Kink Meme. The prompt was: _Ebenezer Schrooge gets gangbanged by all the ghosts because he’s been a very bad boy._ It is also for MissDavisWrites' 2019 Advent Calendar Day 12: Bah humbug. Also for the story_works 2019 Paranormal Challenge.

Scrooged was banged: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. He was banged by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, the Ghost of Christmas Present, and the Ghost of Christmas Past in a churchyard on the neglected grave adorned with the stone which bore his own name.

Old Scrooge was banged as hard as a coffin-nail.

Mind! He might have been banged as hard as door-nail, but doors swing and slam and have life and movement of their own. With force, door-nails may be pried from their moorings and employed in other efforts. A coffin-nail, however, is the surest, most certainly banged piece of ironmongery in the trade. A coffin-nail goes to earth for its eternal rest even when the body itself is desecrated, resurrected and sold for clandestine vivisection. Thus, the wisdom of our buggering ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed pen shall not disturb it. You will therefore permit me to repeat, empathically, that Scrooge was banged as hard as a coffin-nail.

Scrooge knew he was banged? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise?

Like the spectres in their banging, we begin our tale near the end of Scrooge’s.

In Scrooge’s agony, he caught the phantom hand of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come by the grave. Scrooge was strong in his entreaty, ‘Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!’ but the Spirit was stronger yet. It threw Scrooge down upon the snow-covered ground.

Scrooge trembled with a vague, uncertain horror. He knew that falling behind him was a dusky shroud, a great heap of back, but what else was to come to crisis?

Certainly not Scrooge.

Unseen Eyes fixed Scrooge where he lay, prone. Then an occult hand made swift work of Scrooge’s clothes, stripping him.

It was then that the Spirit strove within Scrooge.

The Phantom’s dark robe was spread about Scrooge, and Scrooge gripped a corner of it. Pinned as he was to the ground, Scrooge could see nothing, but he felt the intrusion, the hammering, as if a thick, iron coffin-nail were being driven deep within him.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The coffin-nail, for if Death has a prick surely it must be so forged, lodge within Scrooge as it split him.

“No, Spirit! Oh, no, no!”

The pain was great and, too, the burning for Death is mulish in more aspects than just its labour, and nothing was applied to ease its mastery of Scrooge.

Scrooge shifted and cried out in anguish.

The coffin-nail was still there. Inside him.

“Spirit!” cried Scrooge, involuntarily clutching at the nail with his miserly muscles, atrophied from so little use, “I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse.”

The coffin-nail began to shake.

“Good Spirit,” pursued Scrooge in a muffled voice as he had buried his pointed noise, his shriveled cheeks, his thin lips in the grave soil. “Your nature intervenes in me and pities me with its offering. I will honour Christmas in my heart and in my well. Pray thee, seal me with a cork, like the vintner with his bottles, that I may keep your spirit inside me all the year.”

Suddenly, Scrooge was empty.

He dared to look behind him.

He was alone in the churchyard.

Shortly, through the fog, there penetrated a ghostly light. The light seemed to transform all it touched, turning all that was grey and shadowy into living green and brightness. The gravestones became platters heaped with meat and fruit and delicacies.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Scrooge recognised the thundering as the steps of a jolly, barefoot Giant, who appeared lumbering towards Scrooge in a green robe bordered with white fur. As before, its head bore the holly wreath set with shining icicles. When it reached the spot where Scrooge was huddled, it announced in a cheery voice,

“You have never seen the like of me before!”

With those words, the giant loosened the sash of his robe. The sides of the garment fell apart like curtains revealing a capacious breast and below the waist, an enormous prick.

“Behold my Plenty’s horn!” it bellowed.

It was, indeed, more than Plenty for Scrooge.

“Indeed,” said Scrooge, not knowing what else to say.

“Stroke my horn,” commanded the Ghost.

Scrooge hesitated.

The Ghost grabbed Scrooge’s wrist in a painful vise grip and jerked Scrooge forward onto his knees. Then the Ghost brought Scrooge’s hand to its prick. As Scrooge petted it, he noted it was as red-hot as chestnuts directly from the fire. It was also as leaking juice like the ripest oranges sliced. It was as luscious as perfumed pears and as ruddy as cherry-cheeked apples and immense as towering twelfth-cakes.

“Feast,” ordered the Ghost.

Scrooge opened his mouth. “But how should I fe—mmph!”

The prick was shoved between Scrooge’s lips. Two hands grasped the back of Scrooge’s head by his meager hair and held him steady as his mouth was plugged, all the way to the back of his miserly throat.

The Ghost thrust over and over into Scrooge’s mouth.

Scrooge choked. He sputtered. He would've coughed if he had been given enough reprieve for air. He pinched his eyes shut, and tears rolled down his shriveled cheeks. His pointed noise exploded in violent, oozing bursts.

Finally, the Ghost wrenched Scrooge away.

Scrooge fell back.

“Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch, Spirit?” he asked in a raw voice.

“There is. My own.”

“Would you apply it to any kind of sinner on this day?”

“To every naughty soul. To the wicked most.”

“Why to the wicked most?”

“Because they need it most!”

The Ghost laughed loudly, and Scrooge felt drops rain down upon his head.

He looked up.

The Ghost, now bare of body, held a heavy gold chalice in one hand. It drank long swigs from the cup, swallowing noisily and humming with appreciation at the elixir, then, with its thick member still erect and jutting out from a patch of wiry hair, it opened its capacious bladder and outpoured, with unflagging generosity, its bright and sharp-smelling mirth on Scrooge and Scrooge’s environs.

Scrooge hung his head and knew he was a miserable sod, indeed.

Golden spots decorated the snow. When the fountain had run dry, the Ghost cackled,

“Now for more suckling-pig!”

And so the Spirit strove, once more, within Scrooge.

The chalice fell to the ground with a soft thud, and Scrooge’s head was gripped, and his mouth filled with the briny tumescence. Soon a bitter, seedy brew flowed down his throat. The hands held his mouth closed until he swallowed.

Then Scrooge was hurled to the ground once more. He coughed and retched and moaned and noted with one cracked eye that at some point his surroundings had changed.

Scrooge was no longer in the middle of a feast but rather the remnants of one: piles of bones and heaps of stems and a few discarded cores and peels and tiny hills of crumbs.

* * *

Scrooge woke, struggling against the invisible.

“Leave me! Haunt me no longer!”

Scrooge looked up. He realised he was once again prone on the snow-covered ground of his own grave.

The snow lay thick and white and unmolested. Not so Scrooge.

“The Ghost of Christmas Past,” he groaned.

The Ghost was fluctuating in its form as it had earlier: it was a thing with one arm, then a thing of twenty legs, then a headless thing, then a bodyless thing. But in its hand, when it had one, was a long branch of fresh green holly.

Then the Ghost vanished, but in fact, it had only moved out of sight.

“You put out the light I give! Your passions made my cap! Those passions force me through whole trains of years to wear the cap low upon my brown!”

With each statement, the Ghost applied a swish of the holly branch to Scrooge’s bare bottom. Scrooge tried to move but found he could not. The spikes of the holly leaves tore into his fragile skin. The scourge continued for a short eternity, each last pure agony. Finally, the Ghost said,

“Look.”

The branch was shaken before Scrooge’s eyes, and tiny drops of blood painted the smooth, white canvas of snow. They fell in bunches, like holly berries.

“You would extinguish me?!” roared the Ghost, its cry a hollow, vengeful wind. “I shall show you just how resilient my wick is!”

Scrooge cried out in a pain that was not unlike martyred ecstasy as the Ghost entered him.

“I shall not ease your way. When have you ever eased anyone’s but your own? It is a small matter,” said the Ghost as it thrust, “to make a silly, stupid miser so full of gratitude.”

“Small?” echoed Scrooge incredulously, for the thing inside him, savagely plundering him, felt mammoth in its length and girth. “Spirit, abuse me no more! Why do you delight to torture me?”

The relentless Ghost pinioned Scrooge in both its arms and forced him to take the prick some more, replying,

“Why have you delighted in the torture of all those around you for so long? May this be a harsh reminder to you to turn away from such cruelties. Soon you will be full of the gratitude that sears and scorches and brands like the regretful wisdom of hindsight.”

And with that, the third Spirit strove inside Scrooge.

When Scrooge dared to turn ‘round, he saw that the Ghost was no longer a figure, but rather a furnishing. That is, a bedpost.

Yes, the bedpost was Scrooge’s own. The bed was his own, the room was his own.

He scrambled out of bed, emitting a sharp hiss as his spectrally-abused orifice brushed against the mattress.

“The Spirits of all Three strove within me. Oh Jacob Marley! Let the Christmas Time be praised for this! If you were here, old Jacob, I would say it on my knees; on my knees!”

Scrooge’s broken voice would scarcely answer to his call, warped as it was by the night’s abrasions, but true to his exclamation, he did fall to his knees on the rug and fellate an invisible prick, presumably that of his late partner, with zesty jubilation if not exactly worldly expertise. Then Scrooge fell on hand and knees and turned and lifted his rump in the air, wriggling in invitation to the same phantom prick. His face was wet with tears, and he stank of blood and urine and sex.

“I don’t know what to do!” cried Scrooge, laughing and crying in the same breath as he got to his feet. “I’m as merry as a well-swished, naughty schoolboy! I don’t know how long I’ve been among the Spirits. I don’t know anything. I’m quite a baby. Naked baby, that’s me!”

Scrooge rent all the nightclothes from his body and scattered them to the floor, then he frisked into the sitting-room, the down the stairs and out the door, making certain he licked the knocker for good measure.

“What’s today, my fine fellow?” asked Scrooge when he had passed out of the courtyard and into the street.

“Today,” replied a boy in Sunday clothes who was staring as the nude old man with appropriate horror. “Why, CHRISTMAS DAY!” Then he hurried away.

“It’s Christmas Day!” cried Scrooge. “The Spirits strove me all in one night. They can do anything they like with me. Of course they can.”

He did a little jig, then skipped down the road.

Scrooge had no further intercourse with the Spirits, and he might have been put away in Bedlam, but for the warm, Christmas-spirited heart of a brothel owner who collected him that Christmas Day and added him to the menu of her establishment’s amenities. ‘Truss and Stuff Scrooge’s Turkey’ became very popular among the clientele in late December.

And so, Ebenezer Scrooge was well-kept and kept Christmas well until his coffin-nails were banged for the very last time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
